


Prosperus

by Cloudnine101



Category: The Eagle | The Eagle of the Ninth (2011), The Eagle | The Eagle of the Ninth - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Building A Home, Childbirth, F/M, Family, Friendship, M/M, Post-Movie(s), Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-30
Updated: 2015-03-30
Packaged: 2018-03-20 10:42:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3647295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cloudnine101/pseuds/Cloudnine101
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'"Oh when I joined the Eagles,<br/>(As it might be yesterday)<br/>I kissed a girl at Clusium<br/>Before I marched away."</p>
<p>Slaves very seldom whistle.'</p>
            </blockquote>





	Prosperus

_Oh when I joined the Eagles,_  
_(As it might be yesterday)_  
_I kissed a girl at Clusium_  
_Before I marched away._

Slaves very seldom whistle.

In all of Marcus's time with Esca, he has never heard that noise escape his lips - but now, he is huffing out a tune, filling the air with sound, balmy and rich.

It is the sign of a new beginning.

.

They choose a small, remote village, some days' walk from Lugwallium. It does not have a name, as yet; its few inhabitants differ in their opinions, and Marcus is in no mind to force one upon them. So, Esca dubs it The Village, and the title (in Marcus's mind, at least) sticks. It is far away from everywhere - isolated, and quiet. It is ideal.

Esca and he build the house, from the ground up. It begins as a mud cottage; they line it with twigs, and sleep there for the first winter, when the soil is too hard to build on. Cottia shivers, even through her own blankets, and Marcus's cloak. Esca adds his own to the pile; the chattering in her teeth slows, and then ceases. Cub crawls close to her chest, and settles there, whimpering, his muzzle thrust against her form.

Across the tent, two men's eyes meet. Marcus chuckles. After a moment, the sound is returned.

.

They complete the building in the spring, as soon as it is possible to do so. Esca works tirelessly, hoisting load after load, until his body is bruised, and his hands are chafed. Marcus helps as best he can, leg aching all the while, whilst Cub lolls about, scampering among the houses, tongue flapping wildly. Cottia brings bricks, sometimes - mostly, she pays house-calls on the peasant women. Esca hints, one night at dinner, that this may make them feel uncomfortable. Cottia's eyes widen for a moment, before she scoffs.

"I am one of them, now," she says. "Why should I try to act any differently?"

Esca quiets, mumuring apologies. Marcus stares at the table, and does not look up, one hand buried in Cub's tufted fur.

.

By the time summer arrives, fresh-faced and brazen, Cottia's belly is swollen. She wears larger dresses, and walks with a more measured step. She cannot help with the farming - it is up to Marcus and Esca to drive the cows in, slapping their rumps with sticks, herding them across broken bracken.

At night, the men sit by the fire, heads pressed close in confidence, and compare the bruises on their hands. The light casts long shadows on their faces, pooling below their chins. Cottia jokes that if Marcus were not her own, she would be afraid of losing him. Esca laughs, at this. Marcus smiles, but makes no sound.

Marcus writes to Uncle Aquila, in the meantime. He tells of plentiful harvests, and fat cows - then throws the parchment aside, and writes the truth.

One evening, Marcus sits between Cottia's legs, as her hand runs through his hair, and listens to his child's heartbeat. Cub lies beside him, hackles raised; wary, waiting, suspicious of all intruders. From the doorway, Esca watches. He does not advance.

.

They can hear the baby more clearly, the longer it exists; it kicks periodically. The autumn months seem to disagree with it, somehow. Cottia's grits her teeth, through the pain; the women bring her healing balms, and sit around her bedside, chanting, long into the night.

Marcus paces, outside the hut, the wolf's steps matching his. Esca's hand rests on his shoulder more often than not, nowadays. It is a soft, firm pressure; invading his space, capturing his thoughts, soothing the dull ache in his chest. It does nothing to stem the fear. When the women leave, eyes heavy with shadows, their lips are drawn tight. They tell Marcus to pray.

When Marcus cries, Esca steadies him. Long into the night, Cub howls.

.

Winter arrives. Cottia barely moves. She remains on her bed, forehead pasted with sweat, legs spread wide. Her thighs are pale, and riddled with veins. Marcus wipes her forehead, with rough cloth; she winces. Esca brings tonics, filled with herbs and crushed plants. Cottia's relief is palpable - she swallows them with relish, hardly seeming to care what they contain.

In this season, Guern comes to call. Marcus greets him at the doorway, leg half-buckling beneath him; the hunter takes one cursory glance, and orders him to rest. He will be no good to his child if he has no strength, Guern says. Marcus nods. Through the entrance, he watches as his friend walks to the fields with Esca, stick flung back over his broad shoulders. Esca, however, looks back, the sunlight glinting off his chestnut curls.

.

The hour comes, and Marcus is terrified. He knows the sensation; it pools in his gut, trickling through his veins, making his heartbeat race. Frost lies thick on the ground, but the air is stifling. Cub will not leave Cottia's side; the villagers will not let Marcus enter. Cottia's cries echo, around the hillsides. Marcus will not leave his post, by the house's entryway. Esca brings him drink, and such bread as he can swallow.

"It will be well," Esca breathes, sending ripples down Marcus's skin, "it will all be well."

His eyes tell a different story.

.

There is silence, on the mountainside. The grasses hum, with expectation. In the dirt, Marcus stands, fisting a handful of Esca's tunic. Clouds gather, overhead; they are white, with fronds at their edges. Only a few smears of blue remain; the mountains are set against them, sparkling with snow and dew, the pines rising against their rugged sides.

The healers file out, in pairs and threes. The last to exit meets his gaze.

"It is done," she murmurs, voice hushed - quietly, far too quietly.

Marcus cannot find the words, tongue too large for knocking teeth. Esca takes them from his lips.

"And is she...?"

"She is tired." The women's mouth lifts. With it in place, the creases in her skin appear lighter. "She will live."

Marcus sags, and falls. Esca's arms pinion him in place; he rests his head against the other man, and inhales pine, and musk, and strawberries.

"Thank you," Marcus says. He doesn't know whether he's speaking to the woman, or someone else entirely.

Around his back, Esca's hold tightens.

.

When he passes through, Cottia is awake. Her skin is pallid; there is a flush in her cheeks. The firelight glances off her hair, painting it gold.

In her arms, a bundle squirms.

Marcus crosses the room in a heartbeat. Cottia holds the mound of blankets upwards; he takes it gently, as though it might fracture.

From among the brown cloths, a purpled face peeks.

Marcus releases a breath. He raises his finger, and traces it down the tiny cheek, marvelling at its smoothness. Cottia glows, from beneath the blankets.

In the doorway, there is a movement. Marcus turns.

"A good hunting?" the figure asks him, hands clasped together.

Marcus's face splits, in a beam. Taking a step, he stands before his companion, close to Cottia's bedside. Esca's mouth is still - in a single, silent question.

"It was a good hunting," he replies, and reveals his load.


End file.
